Anne Siddons - Fault Lines

“No. I don’t,” I said, though I would have liked it. If Pom were in the same mood as yesterday, it would not be an easy call.

He brought me the phone and turned away to the counter where the sink was, clattering ostentatiously as he cleared away some of the mess. I dialed Pom’s office. Only when Amy answered in her DAR chirrup did I realize how much I had hoped the chatty temp would be the one to answer. I sighed, not caring if Amy heard it.

“Well, well, Merritt,” Amy said. “Where are we today? Hollywood? Disneyland?”

They were, I thought in annoyance, the only places Amy knew in California.

“We’re up in redwood country,” I said. “It’s very beautiful. We’re in a lodge owned by a friend of Laura’s. Ah…is Pom in?”

“I’m afraid not. Doctor has been out of the office for the past day or two. There’s a visiting team of UN doctors he’s been showing around; from Zaire or somewhere. The CDC asked him to do it. It’s quite an honor. They’re staying over the weekend so he’ll probably be tied up. I’ll be glad to take a message, though.”

I’ll just bet you will, I thought.

“Just tell him the lodge where we’re staying is in the Big Basin State Park below San Francisco. It’s about thirty minutes from Palo Alto, I think, in the Santa Cruz mountains. If he needs to reach us he can call this number. It’s the caretaker’s phone. There’s not a phone in the lodge, but we’ll get the message. We should be home in a few days. I’ll know for sure in a day or two, and I’ll call him.”

I read her out the number and heard the scratching of her pen as she wrote it down.

“You’d probably better call me,” she said creamily. “Doctor is entertaining the team in the evenings. One of them used to work here; do you remember that stunning Jamaican doctor we had for a year or two a while back? She’s the team chief. We were all glad to see her again. Everyone thought the world of her.”

“I remember,” I said. My heart began to pound. “How nice for you all. Well, if you’ll tell Pom—”

“Oh, I will. Don’t you worry about Doctor. We’ve got things well in hand now. He’s feeling much better.”

I hope you come down with jungle rot, I wanted to tell her, but instead I hung up smartly. I had not, I realized, asked about Mommee, and had a crazy mental image of her presiding over a Mad Hatter’s tea party for the beloved black doctor and her team. I sat staring at the phone for a moment, and then turned to T. C. Bridgewater with a tight smile. He had his back to me, splashing in the sink.

“All set,” I said brightly.

He turned, studying me for a moment.

“Everything okay?” he said.

“Just fine.”

“Then why don’t you go on back down and get whatever you need and I’ll come collect you and your daughter in about half an hour. We can pick up anything else you need in Palo Alto and maybe have some lunch. The fog will be burned off by noon. It should be a good day; we’ve had a long string of them. You’re lucky. Usually there’s nonstop fog this time of year.”

“Fog’s pretty much all I’ve seen since we got here.”

“This is nothing. Morning stuff. I’ve never seen spring weather like we’ve been having, not this warm and dry. It’s been a strange spring all over.”

I remembered the maverick climatologist who had stirred up all the earthquake madness. I had not heard a radio or seen a TV or newspaper in days; I wondered if the media was still full of him. Uneasiness stirred in my stomach like a little snake.

“Have you been hearing all the earthquake talk?” I asked. “That guy who’s predicting the big one? Most people I talk to pooh-pooh it, but you have to wonder.…Wasn’t that bad one a few years ago that collapsed the freeway bridge in San Francisco around here somewhere?”

“Loma Prieta,” he said. “Yeah. Not too far. The epicenter was in a place called the Forest of Nicene Marks, about twelve miles from here. But the conventional wisdom says that the seismic gap up here was filled by that one and there won’t be another in these parts for a long, long time.”

Something in his voice made me look sharply at him.

“Is that what you think?”

“No. But then I’m a long way from being a real earthquake scientist. I’m more an obsessed dilettante. The big guys all say you’re probably safer up here than you would be anywhere else in California.”

“Somehow I don’t think you believe that, either.”

“Well, I do believe you’re safe for the length of time you’ll be here. Caleb said just a few days, didn’t he? There’s no indication anything’s that near blowing.”

“You study earthquakes, don’t you?”

“Well, I do, but I’m an amateur and my equipment’s not very sophisticated. Some of it I made myself. All I’ve got is a theory and some back-of-the-neck feelings. No seismologist worth his salt would give me the time of day. Really, don’t worry about earthquakes. If I thought you all were in immediate danger I’d get you out of here.”

“Then I won’t,” I said. “Thanks for the coffee and the phone. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

He walked me to the door, and when he opened it the fog swirled in. It was still as thick as whipped cream.

“I’m going to send Curtis back with you,” he said. “He knows the way as well as I do. He’s good company and a good guard dog. When you get there, just send him home. Say, ‘Curtis, go home. Carpe diem.’ He’ll come straight home. But you have to say ‘carpe diem.’”

“What is this ‘carpe diem’ business?” I said, smiling at Curtis, who thumped his feathery tail on the floor. He was mostly Lab, I thought, a big, chunky brown dog with a thick coat that curled a little in the dampness, and sweet yellow-brown eyes. He seemed to smile at me.

“I taught him that as a kind of code,” T.C. said. “He’s such a big old pussycat that I was afraid he’d go off with literally anybody who whistled for him, so I taught him never to obey anybody unless they said ‘carpe diem’ to him. He’ll obey me without it, but I’m the only one.”

“But why ‘carpe diem’? Is he a fan of Horace’s?”

“It’s kind of my slogan. A statement of philosophy, I guess. Forget the past; let tomorrow happen. Seize the day.”

“Not a bad philosophy.”

“It’s the only way to live. Okay, you try it. Say, ‘Curtis, come. Carpe diem.’”

“Curtis, come. Carpe diem,” I said obediently, feeling silly. But the big dog got up lazily and padded over to me and stood beside me, looking up expectantly. I gave the silky ears a tickle and he grinned, his red tongue lolling.

“You’re in business,” T.C. said, and I went out into the fog, the dog padding beside me. All the way down the white-shrouded path he stayed just at my knee, bumping me softly when I strayed close to the verge, panting slightly as if he were breathing with me, telling me, “I am here and it’s all right.” It was ridiculously comforting, like having a trusted person with you in an unknown place.

“Curtis, you are A-okay in my book,” I said, when he had delivered me to the back door of the lodge.

Glynn was waiting in the kitchen and saw him, and came running out with her arms outstretched.

“Is it Curtis?” she cried in rapture. “It must be Curtis! Oh, you wonderful, wonky old guy! Hello , Curtis! Oh, good boy!”

Curtis gave a soft woof of happiness and started toward her, but then sat down and looked anxiously up at me.

“Go ahead, Curtis,” I said. “Carpe diem.”

And he flew into Glynn’s arms as if they were magnetized for large dogs. It was as pure a case of mutual love at first sight as I have ever seen. When I said, presently, “Okay, Curtis, go home now. Home. Carpe diem,” he looked at me so miserably, and whined so softly and plaintively, that I relented.